Betina Krahn (12 page)

“I’ll take time to eat and sleep when the factory’s up and running.”

“At this rate, you might not survive long enough to—” The speaker halted, aware of having trespassed.

“I don’t care. I’m going to get this factory going if it kills me!”

That raw declaration was so fraught with anguish and pain that Mariah caught Jack’s sleeve and looked up at him with alarm. He met her concern with equal uneasiness, then headed for the inner office.

“E
XCUSE ME
.”
Jack stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight of a dismantled machine of some sort spread all over a large desk covered with open blueprints and plans. Mariah peered past his shoulder, gasping at the sight of a tall, excessively slender man braced over the desk and mechanism, looking on the verge of collapse.

The man and his assistant glanced up with surprise.

“We’re looking for Richard Stephens, the owner of this enterprise. Perhaps you could tell us if he is on the premises.”

“I—I am Richard Stephens.” The scarecrow-thin fellow straightened and began to fumble with his vest buttons and to roll down his rumpled sleeves. He glanced miserably around the office, fiddling with his collar and seeming to look for his tie. It was not to be found, but he spotted his coat on a chair beneath some oily machine parts. He closed his eyes briefly and swayed, leaning on the desk. “What can I do for you?”

For a moment Jack just stood there, taking it all in. He was not quick with spontaneous fictions, Iron Jack. But he did make a start.

“Jack St. Lawrence.” He tipped his hat and nodded to Mariah. “This is Mrs. Eller. We are…friends of Professor Marcus Jamison of King’s College. We were in Cambridge, earlier in the week,” he said, slowing, “and…and…”

“The professor was saying what an interesting bit of engineering your new knitting factory was,” Mariah provided, slipping past Jack into the room. “He suggested that while we are in London, we should have a look.”

Mariah smiled to hide her concern. Stephens’s skin was gaunt and pasty, the bags under his eyes were big enough to hold a week’s laundry, and his voice rasped ominously. Just standing upright seemed to require a prodigious act of will.

“I fear I’m not in a position to be able to show you anything concrete. There have been…delays.” He glanced at the rumpled, bespectacled clerk, who was wringing his hands as if he expected to see his employer crumple at any moment. The worry in his assistant’s face seemed to sap the last bit of energy from his pride.

“Damn it all!” He grabbed his stomach. “The power take-offs were damaged in shipping and the gear ratios don’t mate with the pattern platens. It’s what I get for ordering from more than one machining company. The cursed things don’t—aghhh!”

He gasped and doubled over.

Jack and Stephens’s assistant both sprang to help and carried him over to a leather sofa buried beneath piles of paper and boxes. Jack swiped the mess onto the floor to make room for Stephens to lie down, and the assistant, Rogers by name, produced a bottle of chalky medicine from a desk drawer and spooned some into Stephens’s mouth.

“How long has he been like this?” Jack asked Rogers.

“I’m right here, you know,” Stephens said from between gritted teeth.

“Goin’ on a week, sir,” Rogers answered, wagging his head. “Won’t eat nor sleep. He’s wearing himself out trying to figure out how to get the lockstitch assemblies aligned and installed.”

“It’ll just take another day or two,” Stephens declared with a burst of defiance. “I’ll get it done. Or die trying.”

The latter seemed all too real a possibility, Mariah thought, catching Jack’s eye, glimpsing his inner conflict and communicating her concern. He turned to stare at the disassembled machine nearby, looking as if he were grappling with, then deciding something.

“This is a variable-speed round-knitter, yes? Electrified?” Removing his hat and dropping his gloves in it, he picked up a set of blueprints and looked them over. “Interesting.” He traced lines intently, studying them.

“Have to…make…modifications…” Stephens said, trying to rise. Mariah moved against the edge of the sofa and pushed his shoulders down.

“You’ll make nothing but worm food if you don’t take care of yourself,” she admonished, pulling his haunted brown eyes into hers, praying she could count on what she knew of Jack. “I’m going to send your man for some food, and you’re going to eat it and get some rest while Mr. St. Lawrence, here, looks over your plans.”

Stephens didn’t seem convinced, so she bent close and lowered her voice, such that his eyes opened wider.

“Cambridge man. Something of a prodigy, they tell me.” Her tone grew warm and conspiratorial. “He’s been feeling itchy and deprived. Let him have a look. It’ll do him good.”

Then she sealed the deal with a wink.

After Rogers left to fetch some soup and bread from a local tavern, Stephens watched Jack studying his plans and the troubled mechanism and grew anxious. Declaring that he felt much better, he tried to get to his feet.

“Stay where you are.” Jack carried the plans to the sofa and knelt beside it to ask for clarifications. Soon they were going over the drawings and specifications together, point by point.

Mariah watched for a while, fascinated by Jack’s absorption and willingness to help, then stepped into the outer office to
make herself useful. By the time Rogers returned with the food, she had removed her jacket and gloves and begun to straighten the office. She saw to it that Stephens ate his soup and bread and insisted he take some of the thick, dark ale Rogers had procured. As they all hoped, he soon surrendered to the effects of food and drink and sank into an exhausted sleep.

“We should take him home and see him into a proper bed,” she said, smoothing Stephens’s brow, which was furrowed even in sleep.

“You won’t ‘see’ him anywhere.” Jack stood and reached for his hat. “You have an appointment at eleven, remember?”

“But we can’t leave him like this.” She stared at Jack in disbelief. “He needs help.”

“He does indeed. But not the sort you excel in giving.” He held open her jacket. “At least not yet. Now get your hat and gloves.” When she balked still, he gave a long-suffering sigh. “After I deliver you into the clutches of Fashion, I’m coming back here.”

“You are?” She stared at him, her indignation undercut.

“It’s a puzzle, actually. And a challenge. But it seems doable. It’s been a while since I had a chance to do work of this sort.”

Sensing that he meant every word, she slipped into her jacket and reached for her gloves. They said nothing more about Stephens or marriage or the eight days left before her deadline. By the time they reached Le Beau Chapeau she didn’t dare look at him, much less speak. Handsome, capable, honorable, compassionate—he was a good man. No, he was the best. And if he caught her gaze, her feelings for him would be plainly visible in it.

Her mind clearly wasn’t on hats that afternoon. She scarcely recalled later what she’d purchased or how much money she’d spent. Her thoughts were set on that drafty
factory building and the way Jack had volunteered to help Stephens solve his engineering problems. Was that for her benefit or Stephens’s? Did it matter which?

When the prearranged cab arrived at four to pick her up, he wasn’t in it. Nor was he at tea at the hotel or at dinner later. She was beginning to wonder if his working with Stephens was a good idea. After trying for two hours to write a newsy letter to Carson and her staff at home, she decided to go down to the lobby and purchase a newspaper for diversion.

The lobby was quiet, save for the occasional burst of voices from the bar. While the desk clerk made change for her pound note, she was able to see behind the desk that both keys were still hanging on the hook for Jack’s room. He obviously wasn’t back yet. Studying the clock over the desk—half-past ten—she decided to wait for him in the lobby and fetched her shawl. Her excuse was valid; she was concerned about Stephens and wanted a report.

Guests came and went, most dressed in evening finery, more than a few well on the way to intoxication. It was a full hour later when Jack came through the doors of the hotel with his suit coat hanging over one shoulder, carrying his vest and tie. He paused by the night doorman to remove his hat and peel away his coat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his hair was a mess. She rose, taking him in, thinking that she’d never seen a more beautiful man.

He spotted her standing by one of the columns, wrapped in a large, soft shawl, and he halted. His face filled with both fatigue and pleasure.

“How did it go?” she asked, approaching him.

“Well, actually. We arranged to have some of the fittings reground and drafted a new layout for the factory floor. Stephens is quite good with machines and processes. He was just too exhausted to think straight.”

“So it’s going to be all right?” She held her breath. His smile burst over her like the first bold rays of a warm spring sun.

“I think he’s going to have a highly profitable operation there.”

“And his health?”

“He dozed between jobs this afternoon. As I was leaving, I sent him home with Rogers for some much-needed sleep. He’ll be right as rain in a couple of days. I’m going back Friday to help him install the equipment.”

“Jack, you’re—that’s wonderful!” Unable to resist the joy flooding through her, she threw both arms around him. Shocked at first, he picked her up and whirled her around, his quiet, deep-chest rumble so rich and welcome that she couldn’t bring herself to remind him where they were. He finally realized it himself and set her on her feet. Since the lobby was deserted, he kept his arms around her for a moment to savor the feeling.

“Look at you.” She stroked the smile-creased plane of his cheek.

“Just don’t inhale. I probably reek.” He winced. “My shirt is full of sweat and oil and sawdust, and these trousers—You don’t want to hear what I crawled through on the factory floor and climbed through in the rafters to work on the electrical wiring.”

“Don’t disillusion me.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think you smell wonderful, even with the—Did you say you worked on electrical wires?”

“I did.”

“Jack! Electricity is dangerous. You could have been killed.”

“Not really. I’ve studied it, experimented in the lab at Cambridge. I just never had a chance to get my hands on a real application until now.”

She lifted his hands, shocked by the scratches and grease on them.

“What would your family say if they could see you?” she said, aware of the broader context, realizing how important the afternoon had been.

“Fortunately—” he grinned “—none of them are within fifty miles. You know, there will soon be a huge market for electrical motors. I talked to Stephens about it and he agreed it would be a prime investment. If I get my hands on some capital…”

He turned her toward the stairs, keeping an arm around her waist as they climbed up them. They fell silent as they neared their rooms and paused in the darkened hallway, both feeling the elemental pull of desire.

“About Stephens.” She took a small but significant step back. It had to be said. “I’m not going to marry him.”

He looked down, shuttering his eyes.

“I guessed as much. Not really your type.”

She saw that familiar twitch in his jaw and braced, expecting a reminder, lecture or out-and-out rebuke. But he didn’t continue or look up.

“Well…” She gave an unsteady laugh. “You know how I like—”

“Muscles. Right.”

“And lots of—”

“Hair. Thick, soft hair.”

His controlled voice gave no hint of how this exasperated him, but at least his hands weren’t clenched into fists.

“So, you don’t have to help Stephens on my account.”

“What makes you think I’m doing it for you?” He glanced up, giving her a flash of the emotion roiling inside him, then looked down again. “It’s a challenge.” Passion crept into every word. “Something I
like
to do, something I’m damned good at. The professor was right. I haven’t done what I want to do, what I
need
to do in too damned long.” He took a shuddering breath. “You said it, too. And you were right.”

Her heart began to pound as she absorbed what he was saying, and she felt hope uncoiling in her middle and threading through her. Whole universes of possibility were born in the silence that followed.

“There’s something else you need to do, Jack.” Her mouth dried as she read the moment and knew the time had come.

“What is that?” he said in that same carefully neutral tone.

She swallowed hard.

“Make me yours.”

The words hung in the dark, intimate atmosphere of the hall. For the first time in her adult life, she wanted to run. The suspense was unbearable.

Then he looked up and she said it again…into those molten eyes.

“Make me yours, Jack.”

His gaze sank into hers.

And set her on fire.

His mouth descended on hers, his arms lashed her to him like steel bands and his body—hot and hard against hers—demanded a response.

Heat exploded in her, flinging sparks along her nerves. Every part of her was suddenly alive and hungry. She met his kiss and pulled him into her, deepening the contact, yielding and demanding at the same time.

Somehow they made it to her door and he managed to take her key from her, put it into the lock and turn it—proof of mad mechanical skills if there ever was one. He backed her into the room and closed the door with his foot, since his hands were busy touching her everywhere he could reach.

Her shawl hit the floor and he started on her blouse buttons. She dispensed with his braces, pulled his shirt out, and managed to unbutton his trousers while helping him dispatch her skirt. She had a few skills herself.

Suddenly they were skin to skin, bare arms and shoulders, kissing and swaying wildly, trembling with eagerness. She could barely breathe by the time she stepped out of her petticoats and kicked them away. When she stepped out of her shoes, he lifted his head.

“Leave the shoes,” he muttered against her throat. “I like shoes.”

“And stockings?” she said on a breathy laugh.

“And stockings.”

“What about corsets?”

He pulled back and looked at her breasts with lust so potent that her sex turned liquid. He inserted a finger beneath that rim of pink satin, and with a deft motion, flicked her nipple free. He took that one into his mouth as he freed the other. She squirmed with response and he laughed.

“The corset stays.” He ran his hands over her bound waist and peeled her knickers down, while staring at the nipples peeking over her boning. “You look like a
petit four.
All smooth white frosting and pink rosettes.” He did what was natural with those velvety rosettes—devoured them.